Trajectories
by EveyHammond
Summary: What was going through John's mind in those few minutes by the pool...  SPOILERS for The Great Game .  All glory to Mr Doyle, Mr Gatiss & Mr Moffat for giving us such wondrous characters to play with. Feedback is love.


_**Trajectories**_

John Watson knows exactly what kind of damage a bullet can do to the human body.

Bullets, shrapnel, land mines, bomb fragments… He has seen first-hand what happens when moving metal makes contact with fragile flesh. The hideous creativity of a body wounded by ordinance. The random horror of wounding. Limbs raggedly torn off by a hidden roadside IED; the obscene sucking of a lung punctured by shrapnel; internal organs ripped to shreds by a bullet's tumbling path through a man's body.

He knew the theory. As an RAMC medical officer, he knew the practical. Finally, he knew it first-hand: when he'd finally run into the one that had his name on it. Even in the midst of the chaos of the enemy fire that had cut through their patrol, he'd somehow found the time to feel astonished as what felt like a kick from a horse had struck his shoulder. It was a cliché that at first you don't feel a gunshot for what it is, but he truly hadn't. Just a sudden numbness and a sense of not being able to make his body work to get him up and running away from the crossfire that was turning his guts to liquid.

It took seeing his own blood to reconnect the nerves in John's shoulder to his brain, which was when he understood the value of the body's primitive and bizarre defence. That initial anaesthesia gave you maybe enough time to focus on evading further damage, be it from militia bullets or a sabre-toothed tiger. But once the pain kicked in, it held your attention all right.

John had heard the old saw that women who had given birth somehow later forgot the pain they'd endured during labour, in order to become pregnant and give birth again. He'd never believed it. And after having stopped a bullet by the side of the road in Helmland province, he knew it was total bollocks. Even now, nearly two years later, he remembered the pain of being shot so distinctly that it haunted his nightmares. It was an experience he had ambitions never to undergo again.

_You bloody idiot. You're not going to feel the bullet. Not when it has to travel through a block of C4 to hit you. You'll be in a hundred pieces._

Not the world's most comforting thought. Yet it was the best he could manage, standing sweating under the weight of the explosive-laden vest and parka; breathing shallowly and deliberately to hold back the shakes; focusing on keeping upright, not making any sudden moves, not flinching as the bright red dot of the rifle laser sight glowed on his chest. Trying not to let Moriarty's words, his callous banter about games played, lives snuffed out for the sake of some twisted need to be the cleverest, cause the sick fury in the pit of his stomach to rise up. Trying to be still, wait for the moment when he can act, stop being a bit player in this deadly rivalry between two geniuses.

"People have died." Sherlock sounds coldly furious.

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty's voice pitches up to a scream, echoing round the pool.

"I will stop you." Sherlock speaks resolutely, he still has the gun trained on Moriarty, left hand supporting the right.

"No you won't." Moriarty airily dismissive.

_Yes he bloody will. And I will. We'll both bloody stop you, you grinning maniac. I swear that if I walk away from this I will put you down like the mad dog you are._

There's some comfort in letting the anger surface, but not much, because when all's said and done there's still several kilos of explosive hanging heavy off him and the red dot is still glowing on his chest. Legs starting to get very tired and all in all, starting to dread that neither he nor Sherlock will be walking away from this, aspirations aside.

Then Sherlock looks directly at him. Breaking off his verbal sparring with Moriarty, spurning his adversary as though the man had simply disappeared, to fix his eyes on his friend.

"You all right?"

And with those three words and the look in Sherlock's eyes John knows he's back in the game. Not some bit player or chess piece to be toyed with, an irrelevant pawn in this match of wits between two grand masters. He's tired and unsteady and frankly doesn't have a bloody clue how all this is going to play out, but there are two things he's sure of.

Whatever game is being played out, Sherlock intends to win it. Because of the innocents who've already died, yes; because of his need to be right, to be the alpha mind, perhaps; but right now? Because Moriarty has put John in harm's way.

And if Moriarty calls him _Johnny-boy_ just one more time, John promises himself he's going put him into a neck-lock and squeeze until that chirpy little grin is wiped off the twisted bastard's face.


End file.
